


(I will) start painting houses

by BBG



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Criminals, Alternate Universe - Prison, Angst and Humor, M/M, Whump, dub-con, non-con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-29
Updated: 2013-06-04
Packaged: 2017-12-06 20:37:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/739919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BBG/pseuds/BBG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>When Frank meets Gerard Way, the guy’s defending his right to artistic expression.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Sometimes unfortunate circumstances can open doors to all kinds of adventures. </p><p>Alternatively, sometimes they can lock them closed. </p><p>This, it seems, is a bit of both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> WIP. Warnings, tags and pairings will change with chapters, with definite future Gerard/Frank, future Gerard/Other, graphic violence and dub-con. 
> 
> First time writing Bandom, title from Not Even Jail by Interpol.

When Frank meets Gerard Way, the guy’s defending his right to artistic expression.

‘No,’ the guy says, grinning widely and running his fingers through blindingly bleached white hair. ‘If I have to live here, I’m going to make it fucking pretty.’

So there’s that.

Frank grins. They’re off to a roaring start.

 

Not that it hadn’t been a bit of a crapshoot before that. He’d spent a month in a dingy little grey hole with nothing but the knowledge that firstly, he’d succeeded in 80% of his mission, and secondly, that he’d made a whole troupe of motherfuckers happy. 

As nice as that all sounds though, a month in solitary confinement, with guards making pointed guttural noises as they spit in your food before giving it to you, isn’t particularly awesome. 

The 20% of his mission that had gone to shit made more of an impact than Frank would have liked, really. He’d been so fucking close.

 

Frank is actually wearing fetters. Shackles and chains, because the assholes like making points. He leans against the wall and watches the debate going on in front of him.

‘Are we gonna have a problem, Way?’

The guy shakes his head, a little smile dancing across his lips. ‘Nope.’ He pops the p. Frank thinks he’s falling a little in love. ‘Whatever you say, boss.’ He widens his eyes showily and then bats his eyelids.

It’s a little hard to hear what’s being said because the block has been chanting Frank’s last name for the last five minutes. Which is nice, he supposes, but the guards are getting even more pissy than usual, and that’s not generally a wonderful sign. 

Frank doesn’t know any of the guards in this block. He’d been in A before, and the guys in solitary usually stuck to their turf. Whatever this douche’s name, he steps out of the cell and screams for the other cons to shut the fuck up. Very helpful, Frank thinks. Well played.

The noise doesn’t lessen. Dickface McGee steps toward Frank, and very carefully, without fanfare, punches him in the stomach.

It would be unfair even if Frank’s hands hadn’t been restrained behind his back but as it is, it’s fucking inhumane. Frank doubles over, trying not to vomit. His IBS means that he reacts to any interference with his stomach more than the average, and a punch is like torture. When he straightens, the block is screaming abuse at the asshole, and Frank’s personal watchmen unlock his chains before pushing him into the cell. 

He crumples onto the ground, grunting and clutching at his stomach. 

‘One more word,’ the asswipe says ‘and the speaker gets to find out what Iero’s been doing for the past month. Now shut the fuck up.’

The crowd is dimming anyway, now that Frank’s shut away.

Way slumps onto the bottom bunk and pulls a smoke out. ‘You mind?’ he asks, which, wow, when did prison interplay change for the better? He’s gaping, and the guy fiddles a little with his hair, twisting the strands between the fingers of his free hand. He only realises Way actually expected a response sometime later when the guy’s face hardens a little.

‘Knock yourself out,’ Frank offers. ‘Actually, uh, could I-’

Way throws the pack at him.

‘Thanks,’ Frank says happily, pulling one out. ‘I’ll pay you back.’

Way just shrugs and lights up before throwing the matchbook at Frank.

‘I’m-’

‘Frank Iero,’ Way finishes for him. ‘Yeah dude, I know.’

Frank huffs a laugh and lights his own cigarette. ‘So, everyone...?’

‘We’re all in shock and awe,’ Way deadpans, and Frank giggles, a little sound he’d tried to suppress during the last three years of his internment. What the fuck is getting to him? Is one month and a single day wiping all that time of preparation and conditioning?

‘I’m Gerard,’ Way offers. ‘Nowhere near as famous.’

‘Ah well,’ Frank banters, sucking at the filter, ‘I’d rather be famous than righteous and holy.’

‘Right?!’ Gerard exclaims, ‘you a fan of The Smiths?’

Frank shrugs one shoulder. ‘Fan of music in general.’ He shifts on the concrete and winces. Jesus, his stomach aches.

‘Halligan is an ass,’ Gerard says sympathetically. 

‘No shit,’ Frank replies, eyebrows raised. ‘What was he doing with you?’

It’s apparently the right question, because Gerard grins and gestures like a ringman ushering Frank into a show. The display in question is a mural that Gerard has painted with _some_ kind of paint, Frank has no idea what, on the brick. ‘Thought I’d do some home decorating.’

‘Dude that is awesome,’ Frank says before he can stop himself, scooting forward on his knees to get a better look. He realises a second later that he’s folded himself into quite a compromised position and winces, but Gerard barely seems like he’s noticed, still sucking contentedly at his cigarette. 

‘Thanks,’ Gerard says, and Frank takes an uninvited seat on Gerard’s bunk. He’s playing fast and loose with the rules but so is Gerard, so fuck it. Frank has always been relatively risk-seeking, why stop now?

The mural is ridiculously intricate. It’s almost mind boggling how Gerard has managed it with only prison-permitted supplies. He suspects there’s some contraband aiding this project too, but even then, it’s astounding. There are little characters on some kind of road toward a besieged castle, almost like the yellow-brick road as done by Tim Burton, and a dragon in the air somewhere in the middle distance. Behind bushes vampires languish in the shadows, and were-cats, ears poking seamlessly from amidst curls and long locks of hair, bathe in the sun.

There are too many details to name and Frank honestly has no idea how Gerard kept this a secret for the amount of time it must have taken him.

He climbs back out from the bunk and straightens up carefully. ‘How did you _do_ that?’ 

Gerard just smiles and shrugs. ‘I have friends. And friends of friends. It works out okay.’ He shuffles a little and Frank recognises the universal prison language for ‘move so I can cross the infinitesimal distance to another point of this stupid cell’. He steps aside awkwardly and pulls a face.

Gerard sits himself down at the little writing desk and pulls out a piece of paper. ‘Halligan wants me to wash it off. Sucks to be him, since that shit isn’t water soluble.’ He waves his fingers vaguely, and Frank notices the splashes of color staining them.

‘Trying to bait the ogre?’

‘Hmm,’ Gerard replies distractedly, eyes drawn to the desk. Frank itches to know what he’s looking at, but he restrains himself. His previous cellmate had broken his arm the last time he’d stuck his nose where it didn’t belong. Frank’s not looking to repeat the experience, though a little whispery voice suggests that Gerard doesn’t seem the type.

Frank tells the voice to shut the fuck up, because they’re in _prison_ , and no one is in prison without a reason. 

Well. Mostly.

Frank pulls himself up onto the top bunk and lies back on the pillow gingerly. He tries to make his eyes focus on every element of the cell, familiarise himself with the layout (same as his cell in A) and not look at Gerard.

He fails pretty quickly. Gerard has faded patches on his pale olive skin from giving himself a quite obviously toilet bowl bleach job. They look artistic instead of stupid though, and Frank’s fingers tingle, thinking about his own experiments with hair dye in prison. Kool-Aid seriously doesn’t cut it on Italian-black hair, and the bleach had been awful, made his skin crawl. His hair is black and boring now. He should have gotten it done. There are a lot of things he should have done. Hindsight and all that shit.

Gerard must feel his gaze, because he swivels and raises an eyebrow.

‘Whatcha doing?’ Frank asks, because he’s an idiot who can’t help himself.

Gerard hesitates, and then rolls his eyes. ‘Dungeons and Dragons by post.’

‘You can do that?’

‘Not really,’ he confesses. ‘I just GM the story, and my brother organises the encounters.’

Frank’s lips twitch. ‘That’s probably for the best.’

‘Mm,’ Gerard agrees, musing. ‘I don’t really want to see what people in here could do with a d20.’

Frank chokes. 

‘So, you have a brother?’

‘Yeah,’ Gerard smiles. ‘Mikey.’

The name rings a bell, and Frank frowns. ‘Wait, Mikey Way, like, from Jersey Mikey Way? The guitarist?’

Gerard shouldn’t be able to smile like that. ‘Yeah,’ he says, eyes lit up. ‘You heard the New London Fires?’

‘Yeah dude, I had a ripped tape of their CD somewhere in the collected crap I left in my last cell.’

‘They going to let you have it?’

Frank rolls his eyes. ‘Warden told me that the Marshalls confiscated most of it as evidence but I bet it’s just been divided up amongst the guards. I get jack shit.’

‘That sucks.’ Gerard rummages around on the desk. For a tiny little plank of wood, he’s balancing a lot of crap on it. ‘Here. The tape player has shit-all volume as fucking usual but you can hear well enough if you’re close.’ 

It’s a fairly standard issue prison radio-tape player, but Frank’s eyes light up. He honestly really does have nothing at all. ‘Seriously?’

‘Go for it,’ Gerard says with a smile. ‘I have me and Mikey’s old tapes from when we were kids. Smiths, Pumpkins, that kinda stuff. Just let me know.’

Ten minutes later, Frank is lying in semi-blissful contentment on the bunk, listening with his eyes closed.

Seriously, where the fuck is the other shoe even lurking?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's short/been a wait, I've been busy.

It turns out that Gerard is fairly easy to live with. The clutter on the desk means it’s completely unusable, but Frank prefers to read rather than write, so he saves any he needs to do for his trips to the library. 

There are little bits of Gerard’s behaviour that imply that under different circumstances living with him might grate on Frank’s ordered sensibilities. The (only) good thing about prison is that it is by nature quite orderly in ways Frank enjoys. This also means that Frank can appreciate Gerard’s simple rebellions.

A week after he pulls out of solitary, Gerard comes back from his work detail with a small smile like the cat after his cream, and a small cardboard box. Frank is exhausted - the hacks, in their still-bitter vengeance, gave him janitorial duties, and whoever’s watching his strip always makes him go over his work repeatedly until Frank wants to break the mop over his knee and beat someone with it.

They probably want him to flip out like that though, and he won’t give them the satisfaction. It does mean he’s lying prone on his bed and doesn’t intend on moving in the near future.

‘What’ve you got?’ he asks, when Gerard passes through the open entrance to their cell. 

‘Present,’ Gerard says, putting the box on Frank’s bunk. ‘You mind?’ He pulls himself up on the bunk without an answer, but Frank just scoots over. All of his preconceived rules about sharing a cell are being rewritten with Gerard-shaped caveats everywhere, but Frank can’t find it in himself to care. 

He especially doesn’t care when Gerard empties the box out.

Frank sits up so quickly he hits his head on the roof. Considering he’s relatively small, it’s a new experience, and he curses loudly. Outside, guys milling in the common area call back insults. 

‘Wow, dude, where did you even get this?’

Inside the box are multiple cassettes and most of the comic book trades Jamia had sent him. Some are missing, but Frank doesn’t care - this is his stuff from his old cell. 

Gerard just shrugs, lighting a cigarette. ‘I have my ways,’ he says cryptically. ‘Now tell me a story, motherfucker.’

Frank runs his fingers up and down a cassette. Most of them are ripped from CDs but he has a Misfits cassette still that he desperately wants to put into the player. ‘What kind of story?’

Gerard waves his hand around, cigarette flaring. ‘Wonder and woe. I don’t know, seems like you’d have some good stories. Everyone knows what you’re in for.’

‘What are you in for?’ Frank asks. They haven’t talked about it, just gotten on with their days through quiet banter and routine. Asking why someone’s doing time is a the kind of intimacy swap that occurs when you trade phone numbers with an acquaintance, bumping their status to friend. It doesn’t make him and Gerard friends though, just cellmates that actually get along.

That’s all he can really ask for, though he suspects he wouldn’t mind being Gerard’s friend.

‘Hmm,’ is all Gerard says. Then he hops down from the bunk. ‘Put that shit away and we’ll go to the library,’ he decides. ‘We can talk there. Better than outside; it’s fucking freezing.’

Frank had no intention in going out to the yard. It’s not covered, and it’s snowing. He catches the fucking plague at least twice a year and he hates the infirmary more than he hates his cell. It’s sheer curiosity that sees him plucking up the box and stuffing it into the kit locker under Gerard’s bunk. Gerard leads the way quiet as you like, smoking idly and looking straight ahead. They pass a few inmates on the way, all of whom seem to be eyeing up Gerard in some manner or another, but Gerard doesn’t seem to care. Frank really needs to get the 411 on that sometime.

Gerard picks through the shelves and Frank hovers awkwardly, not too close but never too far away either. 

‘I put a guy in a coma,’ Gerard says bluntly after a few minutes, hand on a manual for reconstructing truck engines. Frank suspects it’s not intentional. 

‘Huh,’ Frank responds, because it feels like the thing to say. On one hand, he’s not that surprised; this prison isn’t a beachside camp, it’s full of one-time murderers, drug dealers, career thieves and the average sex offender. Assault would usually be a step down, but this is grievous bodily harm. On the other hand this guy is, by all accounts, generally the kind of guy Frank would go for on the outside. He doesn’t generally go for that. Criminals, yes. Violent ones? No.

‘He’s still alive,’ Gerard says, poking at a book that’s jutting out of its shelf. ‘They’re still not sure if he’ll pull through, and it’s been three years. Occasionally they see signs of brain activity but not enough to be encouraging. So to answer your question: GBH unless he dies, and then they’ll probably tag manslaughter onto my bid.’

‘Sucks,’ Frank comments.

‘Hmm,’ Gerard acknowledges. He grabs ahold of some shitty paperback and slumps to the floor with it. Frank joins him, folding his hands so that they form the word ‘bookworm’. It seems appropriate in the library. ‘Be out before you though, with your tags.’

Frank rolls his eyes. ‘Not if I can help it,’ he mutters. ‘You wanted a story?’

‘Yes,’ Gerard says decisively. ‘A trade: one story for the box.’

Frank would still like to know where he got that from, but he can read Gerard well enough to know not to push it. ‘A success story, or the kind that ends with me in chains?’ he asks warily. He doesn’t really want to go into some of those memories; they are what they are. 

‘Success, obviously,’ Gerard says. ‘No one wants a busman’s holiday.’

‘Who even says that?’ 

‘I do. Tell me about the time you stole a princess cut diamond from some snobby rich girl or whatever.’ He pages through the novel aimlessly, not looking up.

Frank smirks. There have been more than a few of those. Gerard lights up another cigarette with one hand, and Frank glances at him askance. ‘Are we supposed to smoke in here?’ Gerard gives him a look that suggests strongly that he doesn’t give a fuck.

‘The first time I ever stole something big enough to get the notice of the feebs, it was for Jamia.’

Gerard exhales a full lung, smoke milling out in a large cloud, and folds his legs in. ‘Tell me more.’

Frank does.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some details updated, in case it wasn't clear: this chapter contains non-graphic references to dub-con and non-con. Also poor psychological dealing of rape. 
> 
> Also, in case it wasn't clear from the beginning: this is not based on fact. If you want a factually sound story, you're probably in the wrong trope.

On Saturday the cell gets tossed because Halligan is pissed that Gerard hasn’t taken his wall art down. They’re given grey paint and told to roll over it, since it won’t wash off. 

Frank is less than impressed because they don’t have work detail on Saturdays and he’s aching enough from mopping and cleaning all week. If he had the chance, he’d move some paint into a bottle just in case, but they’re watched like a hawk the entire time.

They don’t take much from the cell; a shiv that looks suspiciously like a stiletto knife, an extra blanket Gerard had managed to acquire, and one of Frank’s trades. As much as it sucks, Frank stays silent when they take that, because while it’s not contraband, it’s a trade for not pulling one or both of them in for the knife, and he knows it.

‘Warden wants you,’ Halligan says once they’re finished, nodding at Gerard.

‘Why?’ Gerard asks. ‘It’s Saturday.’

‘Do I look like his fucking secretary?’ Halligan asks. ‘Move your ass.’

They disappear, and Frank wanders out into the common area. He’s suddenly incredibly bored - not having Gerard around means he has to go back to entertaining himself, and he’s never been very good at that when it doesn’t mean illegal or energy rich-activities. On the outside, Frank loved weekends, laying around somewhere just because the rest of the world was, not because he had to slave at a nine to five on the other five days of the week. Inside, Saturdays suck just as much as the other days, only for different reasons.

Some guys at a table are playing cards, so he stands back and watches for a little while until one of the guys tells him to fuck off. He’s one move away from starting a fight, but getting thrown back into the hole isn’t going to alleviate the boredom at all, even if it’s a five minute distraction.

He just sighs and goes back to his cell to settle into listening to a Black Flag tape and staring at the ceiling, barely even noticing when Gerard comes back in, quiet and unobtrusive. Frank doesn’t ask about the warden, and Gerard doesn’t volunteer. They’re silent, existing in time as they endure its passing. 

_Fucking prison_.

 

Jamia finds an ID good enough to burn some weeks later, pretending to be a cousin, and she slides onto the visitor’s stool with the air of an exhausted fugitive. 

‘I’m going to England,’ she announces, and he sighs and nods. ‘It’s getting too hot here.’

It’s for the best, yet he can’t help but mourn. ‘Make sure you’ve got a good passport,’ he laughs, and her face twists.

‘Frankie-’

‘I know,’ he waves a hand. ‘It wasn’t your fault, J.’

‘I’ll come back,’ she promises earnestly, leaning forward to take his hand and pull it toward her. ‘As soon as the heat dies down.’

‘Don’t,’ he tells her. ‘I’ll- I’ll see you there, okay?’

‘I’ll write you. Everything will be set up for you, okay? This time we won’t go through Dewees.’

‘It wasn’t his fault either,’ he sighs. ‘It wasn’t anyone’s fault, it was just bad luck.’

‘Are you doing okay?’ She looks him up and down. ‘You look thin. They said you got another ten years?’

He shrugs. ‘Fuck that noise. You and me, as soon as I can.’

‘Be careful,’ she whispers, and then straightens. ‘So, tell me something.’

He squeezes her hand and thinks. ‘I have a new cellmate,’ he tells her, and suddenly everything he’s thought about Gerard rises to the surface. ‘He’s-’

‘Huh,’ she says, and he quirks an eyebrow. She’s their con-artist, through and through, hot and cold reading like a natural. ‘Really?’

‘Shut up,’ he defends. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Well, you have my blessing, young one,’ she whispers. ‘Use protection.’

‘Fuck off.’ He flips her off with one hand. ‘What have _you_ been doing?’

She tells him, with lots of gesticulation, and it’s good to be distracted for a little while. When it’s time for her to leave, he hugs her longer than they’re supposed to, ignoring the commands to the side. When he’s reached the limit he knows they’ll stretch to, he pulls back.

‘See you in the wind,’ he whispers, and she smiles.

‘See you, Frankie.’

Then she’s gone.

 

One day, about a month into being on B block, Gerard comes back to his cell with rumpled hair and an irritated expression on his face. He’s been rubbing at his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt, and his lips are red and bleeding from where he’s peeled the skin back. 

‘Gerard?’ Frank asks, sitting up, because the other man doesn’t look fantastic. Frank thinks with a sinking feeling that maybe his days of escaping notice from the other inmates have come to an end, and the thought makes him irrationally angry.

‘Shut the fuck up, Frank,’ Gerard says tetchily from where he’s flopped on his bunk. Despite his best intentions, Frank ignores him and hops down to peer at him. ‘Fuck off,’ Gerard mutters.

‘What happened?’ Frank asks steelily. ‘Did the others-’

‘No,’ Gerard snaps, flinging his hand up to trace the bottom of Frank’s bunk. ‘What do you care?’

‘Jesus, fine, I’ll stop. I just thought maybe you’d like to talk to someone.’

‘Aww, are you going to be my sympathetic ear?’ Gerard croons.

‘If you want,’ Frank grits out. ‘Look, I’m just trying to be a human being here. Tell me to fuck off one more time, and I will.’

Gerard stays silent. Yeah, that’s what Frank thought. ‘If it wasn’t the others, what happened?’

Frank waits long enough that he thinks Gerard really isn’t going to answer. He’s about to hop back up onto his own bed when Gerard opens his mouth. ‘My work detail is in the warden’s office.’

‘Nice,’ Frank comments. The warden’s office means desk work, filing and data entry and stuff, which Frank would have held in contempt on the outside, but definitely beats scrubbing floors. Gerard huffs a mirthless laugh. 

‘Sure,’ he mutters. ‘It was.’

‘What happened?’

Gerard worries at his lower lip again, making the skin stretch tight. Frank looks away. ‘We had a... thing.’

‘A thing?’ Frank frowns, and then reconsiders his original theory, that the other inmates had gotten to Gerard. ‘You mean like... sexual?’

Gerard rubs at his forehead. ‘It wasn’t one-sided, okay. It wasn’t like he was taking advantage of me or anything, he’s actually kind of a decent guy. Funny, you know? Smart. The kind of guy I’d probably go for on the outside.’

 _Guy_ , Frank thinks. _Guyguyguyguyguy_. Then he has to shake himself. Focus. 

‘Um, okay?’ Frank has met the warden twice. Once when he first arrived at the prison, when they’d gotten the ‘I will fuck you over if you fuck me over’ speech, and then when he’d been... returned. Neither had been particularly positive experiences. He tries to remember what Warden McCracken looks like, and all he gets is thick black glasses and long black hair. He hadn’t exactly been focusing on the guy’s looks.

‘I wasn’t thinking clearly when it started. I’m... an alcoholic, I guess. When I first got here, I grabbed whatever I could to keep it going, kept getting strung out.’ Frank winces. ‘This seemed like a good solution, because it seemed like everywhere I went people were trying to... you know. I was trying to buy protection with money, but I didn’t have that much before, and Mikey’s band was still getting off the ground. Bert basically made it so that the guards actually did their fucking jobs and kept an eye on me.’

‘And you two were...’ Frank tries not to pull a face. He’s thought about, fought and otherwise rejected sex from other inmates, but fucking a guard or the warden just seemed... seedy. More seedy than his fucked up morals would allow.

‘Yeah. I slowly pulled myself off the shit I was taking, because Mikey kept at me about it and because I was having trouble funding it without resorting to drastic measures, but I kept working in his office. Sometimes he’d send the guard out and we’d...’ Gerard shrugs. ‘I liked it, for a while. Not just because he’d get me off, or because of the protection but because, I don’t know, he treated me like an equal or something. I was so sick of feeling subhuman.’

Frank can relate to that. ‘What changed?’

‘I did, I guess. The cleaner I got, the more I realised that what he talked was a load of shit. He was smart, sure, but he was a complete asshole. And then I made the mistake of telling him that, and any visage of us being equals just...’ he waves a hand. ‘Disappeared. He called me a whore and told me that if I didn’t shut my mouth when it wasn’t required he’d... well it wasn’t nice.’

Gerard flaps a hand. ‘I’ve tried to ignore it since then. Just do my job and you know, whatever he wanted once in a while, but he’s right, now. I _am_ a whore.’

‘Fuck that,’ Frank says, crawling up onto the bunk next to Gerard and pulling his knees up. ‘It’s fucking blackmail.’

Gerard laughs bitterly. ‘It’s sex in exchange for protection. That’s fucking prostitution, dude.’

Frank sighs. ‘We all have to deal with that shit some way or another. You took whatever chance you could find. There’s nothing wrong with that.’

‘You don’t deal with it.’ 

Frank turns to him with a frown.

‘I did before. First six months I spent more time in the infirmary or the hole than I did in my cell. I had to fight some fucker almost every day I was on the block.’

‘Did they...’ Gerard shakes his head, like he’s trying to pull the words back, like he’s pushing too far.

‘Twice,’ Frank says, matter-of-fact, trying not to let the memories surface, swallowing them down. He knows that’s not the best way to deal with this shit, but right now he doesn’t need a psychiatrist, he needs to keep fucking going. ‘Then they got bored with me fighting back so hard and went after easier, cheaper targets.’ He shrugs. ‘It might start up again now that I’ve changed blocks, who the fuck knows with these psychos.’

There’s a moment of quiet while Gerard thinks this over. Frank actively doesn’t think about it, just considers what Jamia had set up for him protection-wise and whether it’s going to be sufficient on B block. It’s complicated - pitting person against person, which has never really been Frank’s _forte_. Jamia loves playing the chess game: Frank would rather be on the board.

‘Why’d you run?’

Frank raises an eyebrow. For him, it’s a non-sequitur but he doesn’t ask what elicited the question. He shrugs. ‘Why wouldn’t I?’

Gerard laughs and gestures at the cell around them. Frank rolls his eyes. ‘Well _yeah_ , but it’s better to try than to sit back and let the man dictate endless years of your life.’

Gerard seems to consider this. ‘It seems like a lot to gamble.’

‘I’d rather gamble what I have than allow them to take it from me.’

‘Hmm,’ Gerard hums thoughtfully. ‘But now they’re gonna take more, right?’

‘Ha,’ Frank barks. ‘No fucking way. I only got caught last time because of a fluke. Lightning doesn’t strike twice in the same place.’

It’s the closest he’s come to admitting his plans for a second escape attempt, and he holds his breath while Gerard thinks about it.

‘Leave me out of it?’ Gerard asks.

Frank nods agreeably. I wouldn’t be fair to risk Gerard’s potential freedom for his own. He never would.

‘So what went wrong?’

Frank snorts and rummages around in his pocket for his smokes. Gerard does likewise. It’s better with a cigarette in his hand. ‘Story-time again, Gerard Way?’

Gerard smirks. ‘Do I have to bribe you?’

‘Nah,’ Frank exhales a mouthful of smoke. ‘You told me something; prid quo pro.’ He ponders the question. It really had been going perfect until one precise moment in time. ‘Shit,’ he sighs, ‘I was so close.’

‘Hmm,’ Gerard hums, leaning back against the wall. ‘You were at the gate?’

‘Yeah!’ Frank groans. ‘Sitting in an airport gate, cup of coffee clutched in my hand. I’d gone through customs and _everything_ , this was supposed to be the easy bit. Then these Marshalls come storming in yelling my name.’ He sighs and runs his right hand through his hair. ‘Thought about trying to blend in but they would have picked it, so I just set the coffee down and put my hands up.’

He fingers his cheekbone, where all of the bruises have long faded, but the memory makes them bloom. ‘Assholes still shoved me down on the ground. Someone told me that the guys at customs had _just_ come back from a briefing with my name and photo.’ Frank ashes out on the side of the bed mournfully. ‘So close.’

‘Wow, that sucks,’ Gerard commiserates.

‘Didn’t even get to finish my coffee.’

‘Inhumane,’ Gerard moans, shaking his head. Frank just laughs. Gerard seems to love coffee. All coffee. He even drinks the shit the prison provides, even though it is, in Frank’s honest opinion, worse than the food. Which is seriously saying something. The cherry on Gerard’s cigarette flares with his inhale. ‘First thing I do; Starbucks.’

‘Mm,’ Frank fingers at the butt his cigarette has burnt down to. ‘Fucking prison.’

‘No shit,’ Gerard laughs. Finally he seems to pull himself together enough to regain his composure, and unfolds his legs on the narrow bunk. ‘Hey, can I borrow your Doom Patrol trade?’

Frank shuffles off the bunk so he can root around in his locker. ‘Which one?’ 

‘Third edition. Danny the Street.’ Frank looks up to see his smile.

‘Favourite?’

‘Yeah,’ Gerard says, shifting again so that one of his legs is tucked under himself. ‘You?’

‘Jane. Anyone, anytime.’ 

Gerard’s forehead puckers when he frowns. ‘But she’s not like, anyone.’

Frank shrugs. ‘If you can change who you think you are, you can change who they think you are.’ He pulls the right trade out, looking at the open eye on the front as it stares at him.

‘Unless you’re in jail.’

‘Kinda stuck on that, aren’t you?’ Frank smirks and passes it over. ‘Everything’s a fucking game, Gerard Way. Even jail.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to be as fair as possible to Bert, but he's going to wind up the villain to some degree. Sorry: he's just such an easy target.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short, rushed, completely out of the plotline...ish. Eh.

It’s not like Frank just forgets about it, but he thinks he can be forgiven for shuffling his priorities temporarily. Even that only happens because he has to focus his energy on both himself and Gerard when shit hits the fan.

He still isn’t sure what caused it - there’s been the usual tension between rival gangs, races, nationalities, whatever can divide does - but he suspects it’s the new busload of inmates because it’s the day after that when it happens. Someone stabs someone, it’s all down the grapevine, and all of a sudden some group has control of the block, overpowering the guards en mass and slaughtering.

Frank isn’t a huge fan of authority. In fact, at his trial the DA had suggested he was pathologically anti-authoritarian, to which Frank mentally flipped the bird. He doesn’t hate all authority, just the ones that are wrong. Which is most of them. He doesn’t like authority figures but he wouldn’t wish them _dead_ , certainly not like this, throats slit or bleeding out slowly from stomach wounds. 

There’s not much he and Gerard can do though: their protection, the protection Jamia buys for Frank and Gerard pays for through service is dependent on the guards having the upper hand.

They’re sitting ducks, essentially.

The emergency bells start howling above their heads, and that along with the loud crashing and screaming coming from all directions has Frank’s blood pumping through him so fast he can practically feel his heart thrumming against his chest.

He’s done this before though: he set off alarms in museums as a rookie, and then obviously That Time when he got caught, but he’s not thinking about that. He’s problem-solved under great duress before, where getting shot, tasered and/or arrested were the alternatives.

He’s also not thinking about what will happen if he and Gerard get caught.

‘Way, with me,’ he screams at Gerard, who’s standing frozen just behind the fixed bars of their front wall, as if they will protect him. ‘Fucking _run _.’__

__Gerard’s cheeks flush pink, and he shakes himself, before bolting out of the cell._ _

__Running to the library to wait it out is the most salient solution, but when they get there Gerard skids to a stop a few feet ahead of Frank and then immediately spins on his heel to run in the opposite direction, screaming breathlessly for Frank to follow._ _

__‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ Frank mutters to himself, as if the mantra will save him as he stumbles along behind Gerard. ‘Where the fuck are we going?’_ _

__‘Chapel,’ Gerard yells back. Right. Of course._ _

__Every Sunday there’s first a Catholic mass, and second a multi-denomination protestant service that inmates can choose from. The option of ‘none’ is also available, but in the end it just lines up as another hour in a cell while others go sit in a room._ _

__Frank has never been to the chapel. He would rather go back to sleep while people wandered off to do drug deals and trade handjobs than sit in a pew and witness it all._ _

__Gerard is maybe onto something here. He slams to a halt when Gerard stops and they both take cautioned looks around the door. It’s empty. Fucking a._ _

__‘There’s a confessional booth. We could each take a side and just wait,’ Gerard whispers as they venture forward, and Frank stares at him._ _

__‘Why are you whispering?’ The klaxon is still blaring overhead, and behind them the loud banging and screaming continues._ _

__Gerard shrugs. ‘Church.’_ _

__The confessional is actually a decent idea, even though Frank thinks immediately that they’re just sticking themselves into smaller boxes. Most of the others have evidently been avoiding the chapel, and they might not try the booth if they do._ _

__Unfortunately, the priest’s side opens from the back only, attaching onto the priest’s office. Which is locked and secured against inmate tampering, or the tampering Frank can achieve with literally fuck all – their uniforms don’t have pockets, to make smuggling and trade harder._ _

__‘Shit,’ Frank grunts, scanning the room for anything he could use as a lockpick. It’s really just a standard grey room, much the same as the library and mess hall, just dressed up a little with its giant-ass cross and the stained-glass windows trapped behind bulletproof glass and bars. There’s no altar, no sacrificial knife Frank could use to jimmy the lock._ _

__He takes a moment to ponder that if there had been a sacrificial knife, it would be long gone by now._ _

__‘Frank?’_ _

__He’s panicking. Frank cannot believe it, but it’s true, his mind swamped with adrenalin and fear._ _

__‘Can’t get in.’_ _

__‘Fuck,’ Gerard curses. Then, ‘someone’s coming. Just get in.’_ _

__He pushes Frank toward the prisoner’s side of the confessional, and Frank balks. Fucking no, he has not been in one of these since high school. ‘Frank,’ Gerard snaps, and Frank rocks forward without thinking too hard about it. Gerard follows close behind him and the door shuts with a soft ‘snick’ noise. Gerard locks it. There’s a _lock_ on the confessional door._ _

__Frank repeats this to Gerard, who just stares at him. ‘Duh,’ Gerard whispers. ‘It tells the priest that there’s someone in here.’_ _

__Frank tenses._ _

__‘There’s a light in his office. Now shut up and stop moving.’_ _

__Frank doesn’t mention that Gerard has been doing most of the talking. Mostly he’s just trying not to think about how close Gerard’s ass is, pushed up against him, how the adrenalin is getting to him, his heart racing and _Gerard_ in his _lap_._ _

__‘Frank?’_ _

__‘Mm?’ Frank whispers back. He can see Gerard’s face in the half-light the grille at the front of the box allows as he turns his eyes from peering out to look at Frank._ _

__‘You have a problem there?’_ _

__He sounds like he’s trying not to laugh. Frank is going to slap him. ‘Focus on our real problems,’ Frank hisses._ _

__They’re silent for what must be a few more minutes, and then Gerard relaxes a little. ‘They’re gone,’ he whispers._ _

__‘Great, now get out.’_ _

__Gerard slides the lock open, and pulls a face. ‘We still need to get into the other box.’_ _

__‘Sure,’ Frank snaps. ‘Thank god I brought my lockpicks with me. The Marshals gave them to me the last time we spoke.’_ _

__‘Oh,’ Gerard’s face twists into a slight smile. ‘Would this help? I don’t know much about-’_ _

__‘ _Yes_ ,’ Frank enthuses, grabbing onto the makeshift knife. It’s small, slight enough to hide in a mattress maybe, and just the right size to jiggle a lock. The priest’s office isn’t equipped with the kind of electronic locks all the important doors in the prison are. ‘Why do you-’ he abandons that thought and just shakes his head._ _

__It takes a little while, but he manages it, only just refraining from punching the air with his fist when the lock clicks open. ‘In,’ he calls to Gerard, who’s taken up a look-out position._ _

__‘Thank fuck,’ Gerard hisses. ‘You take the confessional, and I’ll-’_ _

__‘Fuck that,’ Frank laughs. He pulls Gerard through the door and closes it again, clicking the lock shut. ‘If anyone manages to get in, we’ll run for the confessional again.’_ _

__‘Ohhh,’ Gerard breathes, and Frank knows they’ve moved on. He turns to follow Gerard’s line of vision. It’s a computer. A shit computer, but a computer nonetheless. ‘You know how to hack computers?’_ _

__‘Don’t say hack,’ Frank mutters. ‘But yeah, probably.’_ _

__He pulls himself into the chair and cracks his knuckles. This could be fun._ _


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry again for the wait. 
> 
> Taking it slowly... delayed gratification. You'll appreciate it more this way, I promise.

There are noises at the other side of the door three-quarters of an hour later. Frank has been industrious, but there’s no internet, much to his disappointment. Instead, he and Gerard have been playing spider solitaire and reading all of the priest’s (boring) private documents. If they’re going to commit some kind of crime, they should at least do it right.

‘Gerard,’ he hisses, but Gerard has already beat him to it, launching for the door to get to the confessional.

It turns out that the priest is some kind of paranoid, or maybe it’s just required so no one sneaks in and pretends to be a priest, but the door’s locked. Frank is just shutting down the computer, and he stares at Gerard in horror. They might have been screwed before, but now they are just royally fucked. Trapped without a hiding place. There’s no way Frank can pick the lock in time. He stands up and presses against the door anyway, hopelessly.

The door opens, and instead of inmates, guards rush in, tasers held out. Frank flinches back, his heart flipping in some kind of fear/relief. 

‘Up against the wall!’

Frank doesn’t bother to see who gave the imperative, just obeys. They’re not gentle, and he can see Gerard getting the same rough treatment.

The guards bark questions about what they’re doing in the office, and Frank calmly tells the truth, that they were looking for a hiding place and this seemed like a good spot. The guards don’t seem convinced, but they obviously don’t feel like pursuing it, because they just shove Gerard and Frank forward until they get back to the block.

It looks like a bomb hit it. There are char marks and blood fucking _everywhere_ , Frank doesn’t know where to look. Everyone is locked in their own cells, and the guards are paranoid enough that they push Frank and Gerard into the cell and lock it before they take the cuffs off through the trap in the door. 

Their cell has been ransacked. Papers litter the floor and some of Gerard’s art supplies have been cracked open and broken. Frank sees Gerard’s jaw jump but he doesn’t say anything as he picks up what he can salvage.

All told, the “Disturbance”, as the Warden calls it when he comes down to be disapproving at the inmates, only lasted seventy-five minutes, barely over an hour. Three guards are dead, and some of the others are badly injured. No one mentions the inmate body-count, but Frank is willing to bet the total was more than that. He rolls on his side against his mattress, face to the wall in an attempt to ignore the diatribe. 

They’re in lockdown for an indefinite period of time and Frank would like to scream. He doesn’t fare well being locked up. Solitary was one thing. Not necessarily better, but different and bearable in its own way. At least he had some privacy - not only does he have a cellmate now, but there are a number of cells that look into their own. He could go crazy in his own quiet way. Now he wants to move and pace, but Gerard has taken a seat at the desk and there’s hardly any space open.

He considers going through his daily exercises but just sighs and flops against his mattress again in the hope it’ll somehow transform into a more comfortable surface.

Gerard turns around. ‘Jesus, fucking _what_ , Iero?’

‘I’m _bored_ ,’ it’s far too petulant, and Frank can’t help the slight rush of betrayal he feels about his mouth just pleating out the words.

‘Aren’t we all.’ He rolls his eyes and blows upwards at his short bangs so that they flick around a little. ‘Fine, sit down on my bunk.’

Frank frowns, but clambers down to sit cross-legged on the bed. 

‘I’m going to teach you how to play Magic The Gathering, and you’re either going to shut the fuck up about being bored or play the game.’

It takes Frank maybe an hour or so to get the basic concept of the game and then longer still to argue with Gerard over which cards he should be allowed for his deck. Gerard hogs the best cards to himself, citing his actual ownership which _yeah_ , but it should be a level playing field.

Frank gives up with a sigh and just plays a couple games, noting with some satisfaction that he’s getting better as he goes. Gerard wins every time, of course, but Frank will have his come-uppance. 

Gerard is... strict on his rules. Frank has lived his entire life breaking, bending and skirting around rules. Altogether, playing the card game becomes somewhat tense after a few rounds of Gerard’s dictator-level control-freakishness and Frank just throws his cards in and climbs up on his bunk without another word.

Unfortunately, stuck in a cell together as they are, Gerard is inescapable. It’s hard enough to avoid people when you share a prison block, and harder still when you are literally locked down in a 6x8 area. 

‘Frank,’ Gerard huffs. ‘Jesus, don’t be a child.’

‘I’m just tired,’ Frank snaps. ‘Fuck off.’

‘You’ve done _nothing_ all day, how can you be tired?’

‘I’m tired of _you_ and your fucking attitude, alright?’

Gerard shuts up, and Frank turns to watch him shuffle around quietly picking up all the cards. Frank sighs. ‘I’m sorry,’ Frank mutters. ‘I’m going crazy in this cell, and you were just trying to distract me.’

Gerard hums noncommittally but doesn’t acknowledge Frank’s apology, which grates, but Frank just swallows his pride. 

‘Gerard,’ Frank sighs. 

‘What,’ Gerard replies, and Frank can’t help but think that the slightly injured tone in his voice is affected somewhat.

‘I’ll tell you a story if you tell me a story.’

Gerard pauses. ‘You have to go first.’

Frank shrugs. He has plenty of stories. ‘Fine. You have to come up here though.’

Gerard rolls his eyes. ‘We’re going to snuggle and talk about boys?’

‘Jesus christ,’ Frank mutters, but doesn’t say anything else. Gerard takes his time, poking at things on their - who is Frank kidding, it’s _Gerard_ ’s - little desk before he pulls himself up the bunk frame to settle Indian-style next to Frank.

Frank blows at his bangs. ‘Once upon a time-’

Gerard growls.

‘Shut up motherfucker,’ Frank pokes him. ‘I’m getting there.’ Gerard just sighs and folds his hands in his lap.

‘Once upon a time there was a girl called Jamia.’

 

Frank tells Gerard about their whirlwind crime-spree in Europe, cackling at his favourite bits and noting Gerard’s smiles as they come. Gerard tells him about growing up in New Jersey, about his little brother, about high school and alcohol and drugs.

It would be trite to say that time flies - it doesn’t, Frank is acutely aware of every hour as it passes - but their conversation eases the passage somewhat. 

A few days later they’re still in lockdown and Frank and Gerard have moved on from trading life stories to creating their own (Gerard is the best at that) and starting a new art project on the cement under their bunk. 

Frank is climbing the walls. Literally. He climbs the barred gate until a guard screams at him, and clings to the base of his bunk over Gerard’s just to see how long he can hold himself there. 

But right now he’s just perched on his bunk scribbling the next endless letter to Jamia.

‘Way, Warden wants you.’ Frank jumps and looks at the gate where a guard is unlocking it. Gerard, down at the desk, is pale. ‘You too, Iero.’

Gerard shifts in his seat and shuffles his papers together while Frank hops down. The color has returned to the other man’s face, at least. Frank can telegraph what Gerard had been thinking.

Shit, he’d forgotten.

The warden’s office is nice. Dark wooden desk, big windows with spacious bars unlike the kind everywhere else with mesh built into the plastic and gridded bars over the top. Frank can’t help but think that this: this is the security flaw. He probably shouldn’t let that show on his face, though.

The man behind the desk is just as Frank remembers him from his return from the airport. Jet black hair, large-lensed glasses with thick black frames and a baby-face. He’s young and attractive - Frank can see why Gerard went to him willingly. McCracken addresses them in turn.

‘Gerard-’ he pauses. ‘Iero. How did I know that you would be back in my midst while trouble rages?’

Frank grits his teeth but doesn’t say anything. This wasn’t his fault, but he doesn’t need to piss the guy off any more than he already has.

‘Hmm,’ McCracken says, standing up and rounding his desk so he can lean against it, flipping a file open. ‘Tell me your account of what happened on the day of the disturbance. Gerard?’

Frank’s mouth opens of its own accord and he’s about to answer for Gerard, because apparently he’s suicidally protective of Gerard. Gerard, for his part, cuts him off efficiently.

‘It didn’t seem safe on the block for anyone, so we tried to find a hiding place,’ Gerard says succinctly. ‘The library was...’ he shakes his head. Frank hadn’t seen into the room, but Gerard had, and the expression on his face had been enough to turn them both straight around. ‘We went to the chapel to hide.’

‘Is that true, Iero?’

Frank nods, silently. 

‘I need a verbal response,’ McCracken snaps, and holds up a recording device. 

‘Yes.’ He considers, and then grits his teeth. ‘Sir.’

McCracken’s eyebrows rise so high that Frank is almost compensated for his pride-swallowing with sheer amusement. 

‘I find it interesting that you wanted to avoid the conflict, Iero.’

‘I don’t _want_ to fight,’ Frank grits. 

‘Well I know that Gerard feels similarly,’ McCracken says shortly and he straightens. ‘You’ll excuse me if I don’t believe a word that comes from your mouth, however.’

Frank purses his lips. ‘What Gerard said is true. We went in search of a hiding place and found the Chapel empty.’

McCracken looks down at his notes. ‘It says here that you were recovered in Father Tailor’s office. Do I need to reprimand him for not locking his door as required?’

Gerard fidgets, and McCracken moves his gaze from Frank to the man beside him. A smile twitches at the corner of his mouth. ‘No,’ Frank says quickly before the questioning can turn on Gerard. ‘I picked the lock.’

‘Really,’ McCracken asks. ‘And what did you use for that?’

Frank doesn’t answer. The shiv had been Gerard’s, and he won’t sell out his cellmate. McCracken sighs. ‘I thought so.’ He reaches behind himself. ‘Would this belong to either of you?’

It’s the jagged piece of plastic. Of _course_ , Frank hadn’t thought about what Gerard would do with that when the guards found them. He must have just dropped it. 

Neither inmate speaks. ‘Okay,’ McCracken says brightly. ‘A week solitary for Iero for possession of contraband. I’m sure you’re familiar,’ he smiles blithely at Frank. Frank groans internally but takes it on the chin.

‘It’s mine,’ Gerard says. Of course he does. 

McCracken’s eyes flicker. ‘Say again, Way.’

‘The shiv, it’s mine,’ Gerard spits. ‘Send me to solitary instead.’

McCracken sighs. ‘If that’s the way you want it.’ He glances at the guards posted by the door. ‘Take Iero back to his cell. Way can go to the hole once I’ve finished with him.’

‘No,’ Frank snaps.

‘Excuse me?’

‘If you have further questions for Gerard, you can ask them in front of me.’

‘I think you’re forgetting who has power here, Iero. Spoilers, it isn’t you.’

‘Frank,’ Gerard hisses. 

Frank grits his teeth but doesn’t fight when his hands are pulled back to be cuffed. He leaves, the report of Gerard’s resigned, bitter face glued to his eyelids.


	6. Chapter 6

Frank smokes all of his cigarettes. When he’s done, he rummages around until he finds Gerard’s, and smoke them too. He’ll pay him back.

The lockdown ends the next day. While Frank is relieved to get _out_ , the tension in the air promises danger. The guards are standoffish and remote, perhaps more the way they are supposed to be rather than the much more natural humans-but-with-power they have usually seemed to Frank. 

He thinks about Gerard. A lot. Too much, if he’s honest. Gerard will be fine in solitary. The hole is tough, but it’s not like Frank imagines it used to be, back before there was a tightening in human rights. 

It’s an empty cell with a cot, a combination toilet and sink and one caged light-bulb. The door is solid and double-locked with a second barred door on the outside. There’s a small trap for food trays to be posted in and out.

Frank knows in intricate detail what those cells are like.

Guards hate escapees. It’s possible that they hate them _more_ than rioters, because not only do they make the prison more dangerous, they make the guards look like fools and the risk the warden’s job. He’s understating things if he says that his time in solitary had been bad.

Gerard will be fine. It’ll be boring and tedious, but he’ll be fine. 

In the midst of the irritation of being locked up all day for the last few days, Frank had forgotten that it also meant a respite from work. They give him a corridor and a mop, and walk over the clean floor once he reaches the end and tell him to do it again. The psychological torture is possibly worse than the strain on his back that constant mopping causes, and he has to keep himself in check the entire time so he doesn’t just snap and try to go a guard. Frank has a temper at the best of times, and baited by prison guards is not the best of times.

It’s the same every day, and he tries to distract himself by writing songs in his head, by coming up with stories or memories of Jamia. 

Three days after the lockdown ends, a guard Frank hasn’t seen before swings by his cell. One of the new staff brought in after the riot. ‘Way?’

‘In solitary,’ Frank says, looking up from the letter he’s writing to Jamia, tying in all the song lyrics he’s been writing and reminiscing about the memories that had been resurfacing to keep him sane. ‘Why?’

The guard frowns and looks down at his clipboard. ‘You Iero?’

‘Yep.’

‘Visitor here for you and Way.’

Frank raises his eyebrows but hops down from the bunk.

‘Who is it?’

The guard shrugs. ‘Doesn’t say.’

They walk in silence, Frank pulling out his smokes and lighting one up. They check him off the list when he still has most of it left, but make him stub it out and hand over the matches and cigarettes before buzzing him into the visitor’s room. If that’s the price he has to pay to see visitors without glass and phones, then he’s fine with it.

He doesn’t know who he’s looking for, and he hesitates before a guard boredly tells him to head for table ten.

A guy is sitting there- slouching is a more accurate term, though he’s not crumpled inward. He’s long and lean, staring out the barred window with one hand in his mess of hair. He has a tight grey sweatshirt on and jeans that cling to his legs. Perched on his nose are a pair of glasses that should look ridiculous, but really, really don’t.

‘Uh,’ Frank says astutely.

The guy looks up slowly and narrows his eyes. _Who the fuck are you_? His expression says, but he says nothing.

‘I’m um, Frank. Iero.’

The guy’s eyebrows rise. ‘Mikey,’ he introduces. ‘Way.’

‘Hey man,’ Frank’s mouth twitches into a smile, but he doesn’t sit down - doesn’t feel like he’s _welcome_. ‘Love your music.’

Mikey almost looks amused. ‘Thanks. Where’s my brother?’

Frank pulls a face. ‘Solitary.’

Mikey’s eyes close, and his face slackens a little in what looks like relief. ‘Thank fuck.’ He sighs. ‘Sit down,’ he gestures at the stool. ‘You want a soda?’

‘Uh,’ Frank tries, taking a seat. ‘Coke?’ Mikey nods and stands, remarkably gracefully especially given that he’s Gerard’s brother, and wanders over to the vending machines available to visitors.

Frank looks out the window while he waits and wonders why, if Mikey didn’t know Gerard was in solitary, Mikey had invited Frank to this visit.

‘I heard about the riot,’ Mikey says without preamble when he returns to the table. He pushes a can of cola across the table. ‘No one called to tell me he was alive.’ 

Frank shrugs. ‘We were in lockdown. He’s fine.’ Or at least he was when Frank left him with the warden.

‘Solitary?’ One of Mikey’s eyebrows raises. Frank has always wished he could do that.

‘Contraband,’ Frank answers. ‘He had a knife.’

Mikey’s mouth thins. ‘He’s told me about you.’

‘In your Dungeon and Dragon’s letters, I’m sure,’ Frank laughs, smiling. ‘I’ve heard about you too.’

‘Don’t fuck him up.’ Mikey says bluntly. 

‘Excuse me?’ Frank splutters. Really all he heard was ‘ _don’t fuck him_ ’.

‘He was drunk and fucked up when he put that guy into a coma. You go out _looking_ for laws to break.’

Frank stills. ‘I would never involve him if he didn’t want me to,’ he says, voice low. 

Mikey stares at him for a moment, then leans back. ‘Okay.’

Frank takes a deep drink and thinks about getting up and leaving. If all Mikey Way wants from him is reassurances about his character and the knowledge that his brother is safe, then he’s done his job, he’s out.

‘Gerard likes you,’ Mikey says shortly. Frank blinks at him, but apparently that’s all the guy is going to say.

‘We get along,’ Frank agrees. ‘He was teaching me how to play Magic the Gathering.’

Mikey actually smiles at that - a genuine smile that makes Frank think of Gerard for the very first time. ‘Does he cheat?’

‘Dude, I don’t know, that shit is already too complicated for me.’ Frank smiles back and hides it with his drink.

‘I’ll send you some of my deck. He probably hoards the best cards for himself.’ Mikey taps his fingers on the table-top.

‘You don’t have to-’

Mikey shrugs. ‘I don’t use them. I only ever played Magic with Gee. None of my bandmates play it and they’re just sitting in a box at home.’

‘You play Dungeons and Dragons instead.’

Mikey nods. ‘Like the true rock star nerds we are.’

‘Awesome,’ Frank smiles. ‘I really do like your stuff, you know.’

‘Yeah, Gee told me in a letter that you had a tape. I’ll see if I can get a show recording onto cassette for you - you seem more like a show person than a studio guy.’

Frank shrugs, spinning the mostly-empty coke can slowly on the table. ‘I’m both. Music was something I dabbled in when I was younger, even got close to recording before-’ he stops himself. ‘Before my life of crime.’ He grins, trying to cover the awkward stop. Frank’s not ready to go into that shit with _any_ one, let alone someone he only met fifteen minutes ago.

‘Should have stuck with it,’ Mikey intones before straightening. ‘D’you know when Gerard gets out of the hole?’

‘Four days.’ 

Something flickers over Mikey’s face. Annoyance, maybe or disappointment. ‘‘Tell him I came by, and to call me.’

‘I will,’ Frank promises. ‘Thanks for the coke.’

Mikey’s lips turn up into a smile again. ‘No problem.’ He takes the can with him, and then he’s gone.

‘Huh,’ Frank says. He’s back in his cell before he realises he’d forgotten to ask why Mikey had asked for him as well as Gerard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have been trying to figure out how to work Mikey in without swapping POVs.
> 
> Veiled brothery threats work.

**Author's Note:**

> Leave some love.


End file.
